


Milk Taffy and Other Things

by gooseberry



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Cloud Watching, Exhaustion, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 00:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14883920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooseberry/pseuds/gooseberry
Summary: A collection of fics/drabbles too short to get their own work pages.---1.Milk Taffy- In which Ignis keeps falling asleep on the yacht, and Prompto tries to low-key make sure that Ignis sleeps safely.2.the way that song went- A Promnis fic in WoR, in which Prompto is exhausted, frazzled, and also kissing Ignis in the doorway.3.move like this- In which Gladio tries to keep Noct moving, because sometimes that’s the best––or only––thing you can do.4.drop- In which sometimes, late at night, Ignis wants to kill himself. Just sometimes.





	1. Milk Taffy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lagerstatte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Prompt: Inspired by the gif of Ignis falling asleep on the yacht: any of the bros low-key making sure Ignis sleeps safely after he nods off from exhaustion."
> 
> In which Ignis keeps falling asleep on the yacht, and Prompto tries to low-key make sure that Ignis sleeps safely.

He blames it on the warmth of the sun and the gentle rocking of the yacht. He’s vaguely aware of how he is rocking in time with the waves, letting his head dip, and it’s nice; there is something comforting about the steady sway, like when he was a child and his mother would rock him in her arms. Then he feels himself falling, and his dazed daydream of enormously large fish become a confusing thought of, _Ah, shit, a curb_ and a strange certainty that he’s about to spill the king’s wine. 

He jerks upright, tightening his hand on—well, nothing. He blinks hard. The sun is bright, and he thinks he must have had his eyes closed for quite a while, because the sun seems brighter than it had before—or perhaps that’s just the way the sun is reflecting off both the waves and the gleaming sides of the yacht. Ignis blinks again, then straightens himself out, fixing his glasses and shifting in his seat. 

He also looks ahead, to see if anyone caught him dozing. Noct is still at the prow, lost in his fishing, and Gladio is sitting on the prow’s rail. Ignis can hear Gladio speaking, just beneath the steady lapping of the waves against the sides of the yacht; Ignis wonders what he’s saying, and Noct is even listening. Maybe Gladio’s speaking to Prompto, though—Prompto isn’t in Ignis’s line of sight, so maybe he’s sitting on the prow, too low for Ignis to see. 

He thinks briefly of going to check, but he doesn’t manage to convince himself to stand up. There’s little to worry about out here: there are no daemons in the ocean, and Niflheim has no reason to look for them here; everyone on the yacht can swim at least passably well, and Ignis trusts that Noct would notice anyone falling overboard, if only for the certain disturbance it would cause. All told, there’s no need for Ignis to be on guard or even the least bit alert, and that—well, it’s nice. 

He shifts in his seat again, crossing his legs and leaning back. The cushions of the bench have the stickiness of treated canvas, but they’re warm and almost alarmingly overstuffed, and it’s easy to cross his arms and close his eyes. 

He’s not sure how long it is before he jerks out of a doze again, his body off balance and leaning too far to the side. The sun is just as bright as before, and still just as high in the sky. 

“Cloud watching?” Prompto’s voice asks from right behind Ignis, and Ignis flinches in surprise, then clears his throat as he turns around. 

“My apologies. What were you saying?”

Prompto is lying on his back on the bench seat behind Ignis’s, his camera resting on his chest and his hands folded over his belly. Ignis thinks—a little morbidly—that Prompto looks rather like a corpse laid out for vigil, with his camera in place of flowers or a candle. Prompto is looking upward, and he’s doesn’t look toward Ignis as he speaks. 

“I’m cloud watching, if you wanna join me. I already found one that looked like a chocobo, and one that was a tonberry, if you kinda squinted.”

“I see,” Ignis says as he looks upward. The sky is an electric sort of blue, and he’s reminded again of how different the sky seems outside the Wall. The clouds he can see are white, frothy things, like the steamed foam on cappuccinos. They’re moving slowly across the sky, carried along by a wind that’s far too high to be felt by the yacht. As he watches, the clouds are pulled apart little by little, like a sticky milk taffy being stretched and torn. 

“C’mon, Iggy, join me. Big skies, lots of clouds—what could be better?”

It is tempting, and there’s little else to do. Noct is still up at the prow, fishing like there’s nowhere else to be in the world, and Gladio is still sitting on the rail, though now he’s reading a book. There’s evidently nothing they need from him, and there’s nowhere else he must—or even can—go. There’s no reason he can’t lie out on the warm cushions of the bench, and no reason he can’t waste away whatever remaining hours they’ll spend here. 

He runs his hand over the canvas of the cushion, saying slowly, “While that sounds tempting—”

“Look,” Prompto interrupts, and when he points upward, Ignis obeys, looking up toward the sky again. 

The clouds don’t look like anything in particular, other than lumpy bits of milk taffy. Ignis squints, giving a good faith effort, then asks Prompto, “Well? What should I be seeing?”

“Dunno.” Prompto sounds unconcerned, and maybe unrepentant. “You tell me.”

Ignis isn’t quite sure why he’s lying down, stretching out along the bench—but then he’s not sure why he shouldn’t, either. There’s nowhere else he needs to be, and no one else with whom he’d like to be. It’s alright—it must be alright—to spend a few hours like this, pretending that there’s not a war waiting for them all. It must be forgivable, to fold his hands over his belly and look up toward the sky, and to watch milk taffy clouds spread across the sky. 

“That one,” Prompto says from the other bench, his voice a soothing sort of sing-song, like the rhythmic rocking of the waves, “sorta looks like a, uh, like an anak, right? See, there, that’s its neck, you see?”

“Mmm,” Ignis hums, closing his eyes. It’s nice, the warmth of the sun and the rocking of the yacht, the way it feels a bit like being held in the arms of his mother.


	2. the way that song went

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Lagerstatte, for the prompt “You lied to me” on tumblr. A Promnis fic in WoR, in which Prompto is exhausted, frazzled, and also kissing Ignis in the doorway. Woo.

He kisses Ignis in the doorway, and it is glorious. Like, the kind of glorious that Prompto has always seen in movies and heard in songs, the kind of glorious that gets a panning camera or, uh, or a guitar solo, or something like that. 

His brain feels like it’s splintering in twenty directions: his knee is aching and he can smell something like a pot roast from inside the apartment and he can hear people arguing out in the street; he can’t remember the last time he felt this tired, even though it was probably just a couple weeks ago, and he thinks his fingers might actually fall off from how freaking cold they are; Ignis’s lips feel soft and sticky against his, like he’s just put on chapstick or something, and where the heck would he get chapstick? And what is that song? How does it go, the one with the guy and girl and they’re kissing in the doorway and––

“Prompto,” Ignis says, his mouth moving against Prompto’s. Prompto likes it––loves it––and can barely manage an _Uh-huh_ as he pulls away from Ignis. Ignis’s scars look redder than usual, like they’re irritated or something, and Prompto thinks he should kiss them, or maybe put some on ice on them––ice; he should put ice on his knee before it swells anymore. Ugh, he’s so tired.

He steps into Ignis again: wraps his left arm around Ignis’s waist and throws his right arm over Ignis’s shoulder; ducks his face so he can press it in against Ignis’s shoulder; just lets go, lets them bone-deep exhaustion drain through him. Ignis can hold him up, he always does.

Ignis sighs, but he’s wrapping his arms around Prompto, holding him upright. It feels so good, feels so freaking glorious. Prompt wonders if Ignis will just sweep him up and carry him across the, uh, the threshold? Is that what it’s called? Like that. Ignis’s heart is beating slow and steady beneath Prompto’s ear, all _bu-bum bu-bum_. Prompto’s not quite sure when he closed his eyes.

“You lied to me,” Ignis says after a bunch of _bu-bum_ heartbeats. Prompto thinks about worrying about it, but he’s so tired, and Ignis doesn’t sound mad or anything. He’s still holding Prompto’s tight, like he’s got nowhere else to be other than his doorway, and he’s touching Prompto’s face real soft, smoothing his thumb over Prompto’s face like Prompto is––like he’s––

He keeps his eyes closed and his arms thrown over Ignis, and he asks, “I did?”

Ignis hums and presses his thumb against Prompto’s mouth. Prompto wonders if his lips are sticky, too, if some of Ignis’s chapstick––where would he get chapstick? Prompto hasn’t seen chapstick for years––rubbed off on him. 

“You said you’d shaved off that monstrosity.”

Prompto makes a good faith try at laughing, then gives it up and groans instead, letting himself hang off of Ignis. He thinks he’d like to tease Ignis back, but he doesn’t know how to fit the words together, what would be the best way to make Ignis laugh. When he feels Ignis turn his head enough to kiss the side of his head, he gives it up. He’ll defend his goatee tomorrow.

“Come inside,” Ignis says to him, and shit, the words are so glorious, “and we can go to bed.”

“Shit, Iggy,” and hell, Prompto wishes he could remember that stupid song, about the girl’s hands on the boy’s waist, about the rain or whatever it was, about the stupid kids in love, because fuck, he is so gloriously, exhaustedly in love right now, “you’re singing my song.”


	3. move like this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a “100 words of the bros being killed” prompt. In which Gladio tries to keep Noct moving, because sometimes that’s the best––or only––thing you can do.

They find Ignis’s body on the Hydraean’s altar, broken and twisted, with an arm stretched out toward Noctis. They leave it there, and Gladiolus returns the next day to take it to the crematorium. Dead bodies lead to disease, and Ignis wouldn’t want—

Ignis probably would’ve pandered to Noctis after he woke up; he probably would’ve tried to gentle things, like he did after Insomnia. Gladiolus isn’t Ignis, though, and maybe he’s running roughshod on Noctis and Prompto, but he gets them moving. It’s starts and stops with Noctis, and Prompto’s nervously scurrying after him, but they’re moving. If Gladiolus can just keep them moving—

“The hell was that?” he yells at Noctis as the Malboro burns. His skin feels tight and burnt from proximity, and he can see Prompto patting at his smoking clothes. 

Noctis glowers at him. “I took care of it. Isn’t that what you wanted?” 

“What I want,” Gladiolus snaps as Noctis pushes past him, “is for you to shape up!”

But Noctis is moving. Gladiolus can keep him moving. Gladiolus keeps Noctis storming ahead, Prompto tagging along behind him, until—

“It was Ardyn,” Noctis gasps. He’s doing sloppy chest compressions, and Gladiolus thinks they wouldn’t do shit even if Prompto’s neck wasn’t mangled. “I didn’t know—I thought he was Ardyn. Gladio—”

“We gotta go,” Gladiolus says, because he needs to get Noctis moving. He grabs Noctis’s arm and pulls him to his feet, then pulls him to the next train car. If they just keep moving, things can get better. If they do what they’re supposed to do—if Noctis finally acts like a King so Gladiolus can be a proper Shield—then shit will come together. If they keep moving—

He loses Noctis around a corner in Zegnautus Keep. He backtracks, then forges ahead; imps scurry after him like Prompto had scurried after Noctis. He thinks he shouldn’t have left Prompto’s body on the train. He should’ve used a magic flask, burnt it like Ignis’s. There are more imps chittering behind him, climbing out of oil-stain shadows.

“Fuck,” Gladiolus hisses as he moves faster. “Noctis, where the hell are you?”

The shadows spread, and the groaning of the iron giant is almost loud enough to drown out the staticky broadcast of Ardyn’s voice: “Your king is right where he is meant to be. I must congratulate you on a final job well done.”


	4. drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a “100 words of Ignis whump” prompt. In which sometimes, late at night, Ignis wants to kill himself. Just sometimes.

Sometimes, late at night, he wants to kill himself. 

It’s not very often—just sometimes. Just when it’s two or three in the morning, and he can only see a few lit windows from his apartment. Just when he hasn’t slept more than three or four hours a night for a week or so. Just when there are too many binders on his desk, and he hasn’t made it through half of them yet, and the Privy Council is meeting in eight or nine hours. Just when he is certain that he can’t do this—whatever _this_ is, this ill-defined and growing task the king and his council seem to think Ignis will actually be able to do. 

Just sometimes. Just sometimes when he thinks that he would rather throw himself off the roof, or maybe strangle himself in his bedroom, or maybe just put a gun to his head and fire. 

(That, though, would leave a mess. Someone would have to clean up his body and take care of his effects. If news got out, the Citadel would be under scrutiny. Noct’s life would be all in disarray. Things would fall through the cracks.)

Sometimes he thinks about clearing his schedule, cleaning out his fridge, and forwarding Noct’s calendar to someone else. Sometimes he thinks about how much work it would be to kill himself—at least in a way that wouldn’t leave any loose ends. Sometimes he wishes he had the right and the privilege, and sometimes—

Sometimes he wonders who would miss him, and why, and how long it would take for the Citadel to move along without him. Just sometimes.


End file.
